


smile like that all the time

by neverdanced



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-14 22:35:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4582707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverdanced/pseuds/neverdanced
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life is a process, and so are relationships. They're still figuring what they want from each other, what they mean to each other, but they'll get there.</p><p>(Or, Bucky's healing and Sam and Steve are there to help every step of the way)</p>
            </blockquote>





	smile like that all the time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AngeNoir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngeNoir/gifts).



Steve and Sam stand in the small kitchen of Sam’s home.

Steve is dressed for his morning run and Sam is in khakis and a teal button-down. He’s got an early meeting at the VA: some mandatory cost-effectiveness deal that sounds just about as fascinating as it is. Sam would much rather enjoy his usual run with Steve. Not that a run with Steve is relaxing or anything—nothing exercise related with Steve is relaxing—but it’s a nice way to begin the day.

Plus, they normally shower together after.

Which is… well, _nice_ , if you get his drift.

“I should go.” Sam picks his coffee mug up, the one that says _’My Boyfriend’s a Superhero’_ and he isn’t sure where he got it from—Stark, probably—but he sort of loves it. He leans into Steve and inhales the fresh scent of ivory soap and that bizarre tonic Steve combs through his hair every morning (successfully achieving that shiny, wholesome look). “See you tonight,” he adds, giving Steve’s bicep a quick squeeze.

Steve smiles. “I was thinking I’d make dinner. Pasta, maybe salad.” He shrugs his shoulders in an attempt to pass this off as a natural suggestion. Like this is something he does regularly.

Meanwhile, Sam draws back. “Oh boy,” he mutters beneath his breath. “Sure we want to venture down this road again?”

“What?” Asks Steve.

Sam levels him with a look that he hopes communicates the mushy mess of noodles, overly salty marinara, and undercooked meatballs that was Steve’s last attempt at “dinner”. They’d thrown the disaster in the trash and had ordered pizza, and Steve had sulked through every slice.

Because no, ladies and gentleman, Captain America cannot cook for shit.

“I’ve been watching videos.” Steve waves a hand in the direction of the living room. “YouTube, Food Network, you know. Plus, Buck will help.”

“If Barnes helps, sure,” says Sam, because Barnes—somehow, some way—knows his way around a kitchen. Steve tells Sam that Barnes was a great cook. He’d spend hours in the kitchen with his ma and could rustle up anything from their minimal rations.

Barnes himself doesn’t recall this, yet he makes a mean lasagna and an apple cake that could make you weep. (It actually had made Sam’s nana weep—he’d given her a slice and she’d said it tasted exactly like what her mama used to make growing up. Sam might have teared up a little, too, but that’s a secret.)

Some things come naturally, Sam supposes.

Maybe they should look into culinary courses. Cooking is therapeutic, right? It could help Barnes build is confidence and interpersonal skills.

Then again, throwing a traumatized former assassin into a room full of strangers and knives probably isn’t a great idea. Best place that little nugget on the shelf for now. Maybe come back to it in a couple of years.

Now, Steve nods. “Okay.” He agrees to _assisting_ in making dinner and then leans in tot kiss Sam goodbye.

It’s a simple gesture.

One they trade every morning.

However, Sam is caught off guard by a rough voice asking, “If Barnes helps with what?” Flinching, Sam turns his head abruptly. Steve’s lips hit his jaw awkwardly and he smacks wetly at the skin. He too turns toward the voice. He straightens to full height and his face brightens.

“Morning, Buck,” chirps Steve.

Barnes is standing in the entry to the kitchen. How long he’s been there is unknown. He’s wearing a pair of Steve’s sleep pants, too long and pooling at his ankles, and no shirt. His hair is a tangled mess and if it weren’t for the menacing stare he’s directing at them, he’d look sort of adorable.

Steve continues by saying,” Sam said I could make dinner as along as you help.” He slips as arm around Sam’s waist as he says his name and gives his hip a squeeze.

Barnes’ gaze trails down to the hand on Sam’s hip. He glowers a little and after a long moment mutters, “Fucking aliens and crazy robot armies couldn’t destroy the earth, but your cooking just might.” He ducks his head and then, after a beat, adds, “Of course I’ll help.” He shuffles further into the kitchen.

If Barnes was capable of inflecting sarcasm, the words would have been dripping with it. Sam even snorts because what he’d said was _funny_. Steve glances at Sam. He gives him a brief, searching look and then lights up.

“Haha, Buck. Funny,” he says, looking back to Barnes.

Sam casts a quick glance up at Steve. He sees the desperate look in Steve’s eye, and it makes Sam a little sad. Okay, maybe a lot sad because Steve is clearly grasping at straws. They’ve had countless conversations about this yet… well, Sam himself had laughed at Barnes mere seconds ago.

The desperate hope in Steve’s eye might not be unwarranted.

Barnes looks away. “I want breakfast,” he states, the time for jokes clearly over. Manners aren’t something that have come back to him quite yet, but the fact that he’s expressing that he _wants_ something is considered a win.

“Sure,” replies Steve. He deflates a little, still riding the coattails of the moment that they’d been having seconds ago. Sam blindly gropes for his hand. Once he finds it, he gives it a soft squeeze. Steve draws a slow breath in and asks, “What would you like? I can make it, or Sam can.”

Barnes glances back. He eyes their intertwined hands and his gaze narrows.

“Oatmeal,” he states. “I can make it.” He pulls the container from the cupboard and half crushes it in his metal fist. Then, he slams it onto the counter.

It’s going to be _that_ sort of morning, then.

Part of Sam feels like he should stay to observe and possibly mediate, but Steve squashes any sort of thoughts by placing a hand against the small of his back and leading him toward the door. “I’ll see you out,” he murmurs against the shell of Sam’s ear.

Sam nods and they head for the door.

“He’s talkative this morning,” Sam comments once they’re outside. The statement is true because full sentences are rare. “And intense, but, well—that isn’t new.” He turns and sees Steve looking back with a wistful look in his eye. Through the glass of the door, Barnes can be seen. He’s making his oatmeal, as he said he would. Sam nudges Steve’s shoulder.

Steve startles a little and shakes his head. “Sorry,” he mutters. “That was funny, wasn’t it? What he said about my cooking?” There’s and odd lilt to his voice, something like hope mixed with sadness.

It’s a combination Sam knows well.

“It was.” Sam agrees wholeheartedly.

“He was so funny. Had me in stitches every day.” Steve’s gaze grows distant, clearly trained on seventy years in the past. “You’d have loved him.”

Sam lets out a slow and even breath. He slips an arm around Steve’s back and pulls him close. “I don’t know if he’ll ever be the man you loved, way back when.” Sam pauses and presses his nose to Steve’s cheek. “But he’s turning into one hell of a guy now and… well, I love that guy. I do.”

“You do?” Questions Steve.

“I do,” confirms Sam.

Because yes, Sam does.

Barnes is improving every day as he becomes _someone_ over _something_. The pieces are shifting into place, slowly but surely. At first, Sam had been hesitant. He hadn’t wanted to allow Barnes into his home, his life; he hadn’t been confident he could even be saved. But now?

“He’ll be okay.” Sam confirms, pulling away just enough to look Steve in the eye. Steve’s eyes are shining and Sam just wants to hug him all day.

“I still love him,” Steve admits after a long pause. He ducks his head. “Whoever he is, now.”

“I know.” Sam squeezes Steve and then presses a soft kiss against his lips. “See you tonight, babe.”

“See you.” Steve kisses back, soft and slow and then smiles at Sam so earnestly is makes something in Sam’s chest clench a little.

He loves this man so fucking much.

 

* * *

 

Dinner is great.

Fantastic, even.

The pasta is fresh, the marinara is fragrant, and the meatballs are tender and delicious.

Barnes sits at the opposite end of the table.

He’s cleaned up and is actually wearing a shirt. His hair has also been washed and—

Sam does a double take. “Did you braid his hair?” He asks. He notices the short, neat braid that Barnes’ hair has been woven into.

“He asked,” Steve replies with a shrug. “We watched some tutorials. Now, it doesn’t get into his eyes as much.”

“Looks good,” Sam comments.

It doesn’t look _great_ , but it does look good.

Barnes doesn’t reply. He just looks down at his food. He’s got his usual bowl rice and one meatball on the side. His stomach still gives him problems. Side effects from being frozen, thawed, frozen and repeat for decades all while being IV fed basic nutruients.

He doesn’t like doctors, but has trusted Doctor Banner enough to look him over.

He’s lost a lot of muscle mass and is underweight, that much they know. Banner has given them basic instructions on how to slowly introduce real food into his system. He also gave them protein bars packed with nutrients that Barnes will eat regularly. When it comes to actual food though rice and cereal is about as far as he’s made it, but he might eat the meatball.

 _Might_.

Sam takes a bite of the pasta and it’s amazing.

“Fuck,” he murmurs around the bite. “This is so damn good. Feels like I’m eating something my nana made and she was the best damn cook I knew. You’re giving her a run for her money, Barnes.”

Barnes shrugs and takes a bite of rice.

“He was really happy with how the sauce came out,” Steve supplies, voice filling the silence. He looks encouragingly at Barnes, who continues to focus on his rice. “And the meatballs, he was worried he’d overcooked them but they’re great, right?”

“Really great,” Sam confirms, voice maybe a little off.

He wonders what Steve and Barnes get up to during the day.

Part of him had assumed their culinary adventures were silent.

That they dice, chop and puree without trading a word. Only Steve’s comments make Sam wonder how much Barnes talks in his absence. He wonders whether they trade memories and factoids, if they go outside or stay in and watch TV. He wonders if Barnes ever laughs or smiles or if Steve is left to wistfully watch Barnes as he does _whatever_ it is he does and… well.

He wonders a lot of things.

Mostly he wonders what the fuck Steve and Barnes’ relationship actually was before the war because that’s the one topic he’s stayed away from.

 

* * *

 

Steve is called out on a mission.

Something simple, only he and Romanoff are needed.

Still, Sam spends most of the weekend a little (or maybe a lot) worried.

It’s late Saturday night, near midnight and unable to sleep, Sam’s in the kitchen. The kettle on the stove is about to sound and he’s prepping his mug with a sachet of chamomile tea. The front door clamors open and Sam starts, maybe jumps a little. He’d thought Barnes was asleep but that clearly isn’t the case since he comes sauntering through the front door.

Or rather, limping. He’s definitely limping.

There’s blood on his jeans and a bright bruise blossoming across his collarbone. Sam sucks a sharp breath in. “Shit,” he says, striding over.

“I’m okay,” Barnes mumbles. He stumbles into the room and Sam grabs him by the elbow. Barnes flinches. He pulls back and eyes Sam warily before allowing him to lead him into the bathroom. Sam pulls out a first aid kit and figures he’ll disinfect and patch what he can before something heals over and causes an infection. He’s had enough experience with Steve to know what to do.

“Where’d you go, anyway?” He asks as he opens a bag of cotton swabs.

His immediate thought is that he trailed after Steve and Romanoff, but they’re halfway across the country so that can’t be.

Barnes shrugs. “Running,” he says. “Rooftops, alleys, you know.”

“Free running?” Asks Sam. Barnes gives him a quizzical look. “Free running,” Sam confirms.

“Whatever,” says Barnes, pulling his jeans down so Sam can clean the wound on his thigh. At least he’s wearing boxers. “The future is weird.”

“A lot of people do it,” Sam comments, dabbing at the wound. It’s wide and long, looks like he fell on something. “There are classes, even.”

Barnes snorts at that. “I might need an advanced class.” He leaves the statement at that and Sam sort of nods because yeah, he imagines Barnes’ idea of free running might be a little more intense than a beginner’s course.

“Does Steve ever go with you?” Asks Sam, trying to keep his voice casual.

The look Barnes gives him is a little confused. “Steve runs with you,” he says.

“But you two hang out, during the day. I don’t know what you get up.”

Barnes drops his head. “He puts up with me,” he says, voice quiet. “He lets me do things with him.”

“He wants to do things with you,” Sam clarifies, trying to meet Barnes’ eye. “If you wanted to go free running with him, I’m sure he’d be game. He’s just crazy enough to love it.” Barnes frowns at that and Sam sighs. “Not that you’re crazy. I didn’t mean—fuck.”

“S’okay,” Barnes mumbles. “I know I’m fucked up, but I also know you’d never insult me. Not like that. You’re good.”

“Yeah?” Asks Sam, smiling a little.

Barnes meets Sam’s eye for a second and gives him a firm nod.

Then, he drops his head again. “I think I’m done talking for today.” He sort of breathes the words and Sam can hear the weariness in them. It’s the longest conversation that they’ve had in… well, ever, basically.

“No problem,” says Sam, and then he silently continues to patch Barnes up.

 

* * *

 

Sam gets home from the VA one evening and Steve is in the garage, mixing a bucket of drywall. His face is grim and Sam eyes the scene warily.

“What’s going on?” He asks.

“Bucky put his fist through the wall. Don’t worry, I’m fixing it.”

“What?” Sam launches into worried mother mode and quickly asks, “Is he okay? Are you okay?”

“We’re fine,” Steve explains with a wave of his hand. “I’m going to fix the wall.” His hand is trembling a little as he stirs the mix and Sam places his own over it. He holds firm until Steve stops stirring.

“The wall can wait,” he says. He waits until Steve finally looks up at him. His eyes are red and Sam places his other hand on his shoulder. He presses down until they’re both seated on the cool cement. “What happened?” He asks.

Steve closes his eyes for a moment and shakes his head. “I don’t know. We were—we were in his bedroom. We were just talking; I was helping him pick an outfit out because he wanted to look nice for dinner. We’d ordered Thai and he was thinking about actually trying to eat some.” He pauses and meets Sam’s eye.

“He was having such a good day. Then, a car drove by—must have backfired or something. It sounded like a shot and it startled me but he—he sort of grabbed me, and, his eyes—there was nothing there. Completely blank and it was… it was like he was…” Steve can’t bring himself to say the words, but Sam gets it.

“The Soldier,” he says quietly and Steve swallows thickly and nods.

“He tried to hit me, but I ducked. He put his fist through the wall. His right fist. It must have jarred him enough to bring him back because suddenly he looked so _scared_ and didn’t know what had happened and…” He trails off.

“He tried to hit you?”

“I’m fine.”

And Sam realizes that isn’t what he should be focusing on. “Where is he?” He asks.

“In his bedroom. He wanted to be alone. I wanted to give him space.”

Sam wraps his arms around Steve’s shoulders. He pulls him into a tight hug and can feel the man trembling, the experience still playing through his veins. Steve warps his arms around Sam too, and presses his face against the crook of his neck. He can feel a few wet tears leak and after a couple of minutes, Steve eases his hold.

“We should check on him,” he says softly.

“Of course.” Sam nods.

Steve laces his fingers with Sam’s and they rise to their feet. They walk into the house and trail back to the guest bedroom, aka Barnes’ room. Sam hasn’t really been in it since Barnes moved in. Steve goes in frequently, but Sam wants to keep his distance and respect his privacy.

The room is neat, immaculately tidy save for the hole in the wall and crumbled drywall on the ground.

Barnes is on his bed, curled up with his arms tucked around his knees.

“Hey,” Steve says.

Barnes averts his gaze. 

"You okay?" Asks Sam.

"I tried to hurt Steve." The words crack a little.

"But you didn't," Sam reminds him firmly. "And either way, you couldn't control what happened. It's okay."

Barnes looks like he’s awaiting punishment, body drawn tight and terror in his eyes.

“You’re okay,” Sam tells him. “You’re safe.”

They stay with him.

Sam sits on the floor, in the corner, and Steve curls up beside Barnes on the bed. After a couple of hours Steve fetches some food. Bring a plate for Sam and a protein bar for Barnes, who clearly isn’t up for trying the Thai as planned.

When night rolls around, Sam stands. He rolls his shoulders and says, “We’ve had a long day. How about some rest?”

Steve gives him a questioning look and Sam nods toward the master bedroom. “C’mon. You too, Barnes.”

Barnes looks at Sam, then to Steve. Steve shrugs. He rises to his feet and offers his hand to Barnes, who takes it. Steve pulls Barnes up off of the bed and pulls him toward the master bedroom. The three of them climb into bed. Barnes squirms into place between them. Steve wraps his arms around Barnes’ middle, spooning him from behind. Sam lies facing him, an arm tossed casually around both of them.

It should be awkward, but isn’t.

Not even a little.

 

* * *

 

Romanoff visits frequently.

Every other week, sometimes more; it depends.

She gets on with Barnes surprisingly well, considering her initial distrust.

They’ve begun to have spa nights. Which, no, that isn’t code for anything. They actually have spa nights. Do each other’s hair, paint each other’s nails, and gossip in Russian. It’s as funny as it is heartwarming.

It’s Friday and Sam has a date night with Steve planned. They’re going for dinner and then a movie.

Romanoff arrives around six with a pack beneath her arm. It’s brimming with oils, lotions, polishes and more. “Evening, boys,” she says, shouldering past them and into Sam’s house. She immediately sets two candles onto the coffee table. She lights them, and Sam can smell the gentle scent of lavender fill the air.

Barnes is seated on the floor. He’s watching Adventure Time and is holding the fluffy pillow he likes. He brightens at Romanoff’s presence. They exchange a few words in Russian and whatever Barnes says makes Romanoff laugh.

“We were on our way out,” Steve says.

“Have fun,” replies Romanoff. She winks in their direction. “We’ve got things handled here.”

Steve hesitates for a moment, and then moves toward the door.

Sam follows. He glances back and sees Barnes smiling brightly at Romanoff, allowing her to comb her fingers through his hair as she starts some elaborate hairstyle.

He’s in good hands.

 

* * *

 

The lights are dimmed and a quiet song plays through the stereo. Natasha selected the playlist and it’s composed primarily of bright orchestral pieces and a little bit of jazz.

It’s nice.

Bucky draws a breath in and releases it slowly. He focuses on the gentle scent of lavender and the music.

It’s spa night.

He loves these nights. _Love_. Love. _Love_. Loving things is something he’s still adjusting to, but he definitely loves these nights.

Pampering oneself is important. This is something Natasha has taught him, and he sees the importance in it. He spends so much of his time trapped in his own head, trying to decipher what’s real, trying to figure out who he is, and it’s nice to have one night a week where he can just _let go_.

Tonight, Natasha put his hair up in a neat bun and she hums while she paints his nails a dark shade of blue. He painted her toes earlier, and they’re still drying. The fiery shade of red matches her hair, which is tied in a loose ponytail.

“How are you, James?” She asks.

Shrugging his flesh shoulder he says, “Okay.”

“Anything new?”

“I’ve been sleeping with Steve and Sam.” She raises and eyebrow at this and then he ducks his head. “Not _sleeping_ ,” he clarifies, cheeks coloring a little. “Just… you know. Sleeping in their bed. It’s nice.”

“They want you there?” Asks Natasha.

“They invited me.” He smiles a little. “I sleep for hours. More than I ever have.”

“That’s good,” says Natasha. “You’re comfortable.”

“I am.” He pauses. “I like them.”

“Do you _like_ them?” Natasha places emphasis on the word ‘like’. Her eyes flash and Bucky squirms a little, unsure how to answer. His immediate answer is yes. He likes them. He wants to be a part of what they have, but he isn't entirely certain what that entails.

“I don’t know.” He mumbles his response and Natasha smiles, cheshire like.

“You like them” she confirms. "It's okay. Everyone has their preferences."

"I don't know what to do," he admits.

"Ask them."

The suggestion is so simple and sweet.

Again, he shrugs and with a smug smile, she continues to paint his nails.

 

* * *

 

That night Barnes climbs into their bed, unprompted.

He cuddles a little closer than usual but neither of them can complain.

He also murmurs something to Steve that makes him blush, a deep crimson that Sam can make out even in the dark of their bedroom. Steve kisses Barnes on the cheek and whispers something back. Barnes nods and neither say a thing to Sam.

That night, Barnes warm and affectionate and yeah, this is good.

Really good.

 

* * *

 

Sam kisses Steve. Cards his fingers through his hair and Steve kisses back, nipping at his lower lip and pressing closer.

They're alone tonight. 

Barnes is still in the living room, watching some nature documentary that he was too engrossed in to consider leaving to join Sam and Steve in bed. He will later, probably. Five nights out of seven he sleeps with them. But they've got a good hour to themselves and are making the best of it.

Only then, Steve's got to open his mouth.

"Buck was saying, he might like to join us. Sometime."

The suggestion sort of blindsides Sam. Smacks him upside his head and he pulls back.

"What?"

Steve's lips are still parted. He smiles a little and says, "I mean, if that isn't something you're open to it's fine..."

Sam waves a hand through the air.

"We need to back up like, fifty steps," he says. "Barnes wants a threesome?" He waves a hand between them and Steve just sort of shrugs.

"We've been talking," he admits. "He isn't sure what he wants, but I think... I think he craves human contact, and he might be remember some things from our past. Things we used to do and something like this just makes sense, you know?"

“What, did you two used to share guys or something?” It’s meant to be a joke but Steve doesn’t laugh. He just looks at Sam and gives him a small shrug.

“We used to share,” he admits. “We used to—you know, if both of us liked a dame, we’d take her back to our apartment and the three of us would… you know.” Steve makes a vague gesture that implies sex and, fuck, the last shred of childhood worship of the wholesome Captain America is gone. His mama used to goad him: “Eat your broccoli, Samuel, if you want to grow up strong like Captain America.” Or, “Would Captain America watch a movie with that sort of language? I don’t think so.”

And he’d dutifully do as he was told.

Except now he knows Captain America was fucking his best friend and that they regularly shared women.

Fuck.

“Oh.” Sam stumbles over the word. “Okay.”

“You sure it’s okay?” Asks Steve, looking a little concerned. “I probably should have mentioned it before.”

Sam rubs between his eyebrows. “Yeah, you probably should have,” he says, but isn’t in the mood to argue. Part of him knew, or at least assumed. “But it’s fine. Fine. You two were together, then?” It’s a lot to process. He should have had a drink tonight, and that’s the only thing he’s certain of at the moment.

“We weren’t exclusive,” Steve answers honestly. “We hooked up sometimes, but we mostly shared.”

“He wants in on this, then?

Steve draws a short breath in and nods. "He does. Is that... is that something you might be open to?"

"I didn't even think he liked me that much," Sam says, shaking his head.

Steve smiles knowingly. “I've always sort of wondered if he was into you."

Sam half laughs, half snorts at that. “Right, because the death glares were laced with love.” He pauses and glances at Steve. "I have been enjoying these nights. The three of us sleeping in the same bed. I mean, it feels nice. Right. You know?"

"I do." Steve nods. “And, you know, Bucky was always an amazing cook and even more generous lover.” The words are sincere and they sort of  _do_  something to Sam.

“Some things come naturally,” he muses. He shakes his head a little and lets out a quiet huff. “Sure. Yeah. If he wants in, I’m game.”

“Awesome,” says Steve, smiling brightly. He leans in and kisses Sam.

 

* * *

 

It isn't like something out of a dirty movie.

They don't fall into bed together that same evening, all tangled limbs and breathy sighs.

Barnes doesn't even join them that evening, but opts for his own bedroom.

The following night, though, he slips into their bed and presses a soft kiss to Sam's lips.

"Thank you," he says, voice so quiet Sam can barely make the words out. "For... everything."

Sam runs a hand through Barnes' hair. Tangles the strands around his fingertips a little and kisses him back. 

He tastes like gummy worms, and Sam isn't sure when he started eating candy but apparently that's a thing now.

"You're a good one," Sam says. "You're a keeper."

And Barnes smiles. A genuine smile that is so rare and it makes Sam want to kiss him that much harder.

 

* * *

 

Barnes isn't ready for sex.

Not yet, and that's okay.

There are plenty of other things they can do.

It's a learning game. 

Sometimes he'll watch them. Touch himself a little, and that in itself is something that Sam has never experienced before but it's sort of exhilarating. And then, the other night, Barnes quietly admitted he might be ready for something more. Not quite yet, but soon.

"It's all good, buddy," Sam had told him. "Take your time."

They've got all the time in the world.


End file.
